Conductivity
by Coquillage Atlas
Summary: John Watson, alone in London with a healing power he can hardly bear. A description of his life with magic, before and after Sherlock. (The sequel, Resistance, is up.)
1. Chapter One: Current

**_Current_**

* * *

_"Bleeding eyen, and reed fingers perced with fire." – _Troilus, 14th century, _The Withe Papers_

* * *

"Let go," the blistered, fading man gasps, even as his fingers clench painfully around John's bruising wrist. "Let me go – I'm not worth it –"

He is frantic because of the building, noxious fire-fight around them; the unsteady sand under their feet leaps in bursts of orange-bright, soot-dark flames at their backs.

John says nothing. He bends over the gasping man; sand stings his forearms and bare face and sunburnt hands, but he pushes away the sounds of fire and men dying, the spurts of gunfire, concentrating on this one man, this single patient. He is intent upon pulling Geoffrey back from death, intent upon binding the gleaming spilling wound in his belly.

He is not using bandages, but his own hands. They clamp down over the wound; Geoffrey grinds his teeth in agony; John closes his eyes and breathes in the dirty, slapping wind. He lets the strange blue current of his magic stream through his very bones, lets it fill his eyes, shoulders, arms, his fingers to bursting. Then it breaks away through him, burns down into the wound he holds shut.

Geoffrey will not remember this when he wakes; no one ever has.

Healing is always like water, electricity, fire; it moves to fill the broken places, the places left open. Beneath his fingers, beneath the onrushing wave of binding, blinding power, Geoffrey gasps, shudders, and falls still. Relaxes. John feels the wound close. The skin lies unbroken under his hands.

He opens his eyes into the glaring sunlight of daytime Afghanistan, leaning back to gasp for air, and sees nothing for a moment but white. The colour of triumph, the colour of the still puddles in the road after a heavy storm has steamed through and left the grassy hills drenched in rain.

Around him the battle rages, and he is silent. His eyes have cleared. He reaches for Geoffrey's fallen gun, lifts it to his shoulder, aims. He means to protect the man he has healed.

Geoffrey, oblivious, sleeps peacefully in the grimy sand.

* * *

There have not been powers for a long time.

No one knows why. There are people who have searched, those who have buried themselves in ancient tomes for years, scrabbling for some inkling, some indication of why the magic had gone, but no one has ever found the answer. It is doubtful anyone will. Their ancestors had not thought the magic would disappear, and so they did not include any musings on the matter.

John knows this very well, because he has searched too. He's read the old books, dug through tottering bookstores, prised open moth-eaten, faded dictionaries and encyclopaedias and medical texts.

He is the only one in his family with magic, and no one but his sister Harry knows (and she, after her initial surprise and interest, has long since grown uninterested. He does not blame her; Harry only truly loves what she understands.). It is a lonely thing sometimes, this burden, this privilege, and sometimes he wishes there was someone else, anyone else who could understand the terrible, lovely wonder of his magic. Understand the aching knowingness in his bones, the way his hands rise, almost automatically, without forethought, to smooth away cuts and bruises, to tend to wounds. He must hold himself back from people, stand away to avoid taking away their hurts; he must hide his full nature, for it could lead to his downfall.

Of this hiding he is not quite sure, but he knows that telling someone is too unknown, too unsure for him to attempt.

Magic is a dangerous thing in this shifting world, dangerous because of its power, dangerous because of how it is sought after, wanted, desired. Even the best of men and women can be corrupted; and magic changes all it touches. In the old days, there had once been equilibrium between the _Withe_ (as they called those of magic) and the others, the _Nowithe_, but now the world is different. Magic has been gone for so long, no one knows if its reappearance will be for good or ill.

John had not wanted to be Withe, but he is. Magic does not choose its bearer with their wellbeing in mind.

* * *

He becomes a doctor, partly due to his desire to heal, partly due to lack of other interests, and then he goes to war.

Geoffrey is one of several soldiers he saves, one of those who do not remember the surge of unexpected power spreading like cerulean fire through their limbs, their heads, their lungs, binding wounds, cooling headaches, quenching toxins.

John is very good at hiding his ability, very good at hiding all the telltale signs. The exhaustion from healing he allows his fellow soldiers to chalk up to stress or overwork; the intensifying lines under his eyes and around his mouth (for the _Withe_ age quickly), the same. As for the heady glower of magic around him, he strives to stay near the equally mesmerizing quality of pure nature, near water or fire, sky or stone.

Water works best; coffee or tea has enough of the liquid to function almost as well. When he cannot drink water, holding a bottle in his hands or tucking one into his pack, he drinks tea; coffee for when he cannot have either. Alcohol, when he must consume it (for it is always a war between his common sense and his desire to blend in, as one day he may blurt out his secret in a moment of foolhardy drunkenness), works too.

So he is hardly ever without a canteen in his hand, and neither is he ever far from the tent flap.

* * *

Several days after Geoffrey has been saved (and in the confusion of battle, no one had seen his healing, nor can he remember it – he believes he was knocked out by a shell blast), John makes his final mistake in the war. Every soldier has more than one; it is only the final one that takes their lives or their limbs, the last act that tips them over the brink of safety.

As he kneels to reach for a dying soldier, his fingers brushing away the grime matted over the woman's closed eyes, there is a great concussion behind him, a massive crushing wave of sound. The horrific noise billows around him; the sky turns to smoke.

He falls with a bullet in his shoulder, and the soldier he has reached to heal is gone.

* * *

She is the only one he had failed to save.

* * *

John wakes with a start in his horrible rented room, breathing in the fetid air of unwashed clothes and old fears, staring blankly up at the pocked yellowing ceiling. It is dark outside; early in the morning. He can feel his heart beating frantically against the insides of his ears.

Everything is quiet.

Quiet, he thinks, is the sound of the time before the end. He turns his head and looks at the red glow of the cheap digital clock.

It has been sixty-three days and two hours since he left Afghanistan.

He is alone in the peaceful city of London, alone with his magic, and there is no one for him to heal. In the crooks of his elbows, the back of his neck, in his wrists, in the dead frozenness of his useless leg and his scarred shoulder, the blue electricity burns without ceasing, and all around him is the emptiness of a city undisturbed.


	2. Chapter Two: Wound

**_Wound_**

* * *

_A/N: Here are two things I didn't mention last time:_

- _I don't own "Sherlock," not in any fashion whatsoever, other than the fantasy elements and my writing style_

- _I plan for this story to be short, around six or seven chapters long, and I've already written all of it. Currently I'm just tweaking a few things before posting the next few chapters._

_Thank you for reading, and thanks also for the alerts, reviews, and favourites! You are all very kind. :)_

_Coquillage_

* * *

John had never expected to be able to heal without ceasing. He had never imagined being able to use his power freely, unwatched by steady, wary eyes, never thought he would have the joy of doing something natural, easy, something _good_ and _right_ and with a fullness of reward. The men and women he touched with his power had lived. Their wounds had vanished; they were alive.

Hectic, terrible Afghanistan had bequeathed this gift to him, had brought him a chance to heal the men and women who would otherwise die. Those who had no hope; these were the ones he could save. No one else would have been able to help as he did.

* * *

Sometimes he wonders if the way he views his power is selfish. Perhaps he should tell someone else, someone besides Harry. Maybe he should inform someone high in government, let them know of this skill that is going to waste, see if they wish to use it for the good of Britain. For it is an ability that could heal so many people. A dying grandmother, a cancer-stricken father, a young girl with cystic fibrosis – how is it fair that he can save them, and yet he will not?

Sometimes the guilt builds in his chest until he can hardly breathe; what is he doing, hiding this remedy from those who desperately need it? How can he reconcile his fear of exposure with the fact that others must have use of his power?

And now he is here in London, and the old dread has conquered him once more.

* * *

_There's cause for it_, he tells himself, as he limps along the pavement, looking for a coffee shop before he continues job-searching. Passerby trickle past, murky presences moving at the corners of his eyes. The war has made him more alert, more aware of his surroundings, and even the calm streets of London set him ever-so-slightly on edge.

_You've read the stories, _he thinks._ The Withe are _always_ under suspicion. Remember old Conrad Travis? He was a good Withe, and yet he was drowned by the very people he'd tried to help. Or Silvia Winters – it ended quite badly for her. And of course there is always the matter of the Red Census. You can't go around healing people without having put your name down first._

The Red Census had been in place since the Middle Ages. It was a record of every known Withe, and you were expected to register if knowledge of your power came to you. If you did not do so, you were in violation of the law.

* * *

John has never been able to track down the current punishment for not registering, seeing as it has changed so many times in the last few centuries, and since the Census had lain untouched for fifty years, no one is brave enough to risk the streams of paperwork that must ensue once their name is placed on the Red. Furthermore, no one knows the consequences of registering.

What happens if you are the first Withe in these fifty years?

There could be accolades, and celebrations, and you could be paraded through the cities in fancy clothes, smiling brightly and waving to the jubilant public.

Or there could be pandemonium and confusion and distrust, and the government could sequester you in a facility somewhere, to try and figure out why you were the sole Withe to emerge after so long.

John does not want either scenario. He wants to live a quiet life, without the burden of public acclaim or hatred on his shoulders, and he wants to use his power without interference. But sometimes he wonders if the constant feeling of eyes on his back is better than eyes on his face. The weight of secrecy or of fame? (Or infamy?)

_This is easier,_ he thinks. _I've been doing this since I was twelve; I'll keep it up as long as I can. I haven't slipped up yet._

But he also knows that when the Burning begins, he has to tell someone else. For it is quite clear by now that Harry, the only one who knows, isn't his Anchor. And without an Anchor, he will die – soon, and quite painfully.

Anchors are notoriously difficult to find; it is why so many Withe have died so young. Without an Anchor, without someone to siphon off the extra power coursing through his (or her) inflamed bones, a Withe always dies within a year after his Burning starts.

John doesn't quite know what the Burning is like, or even if it will really kill him. All he's read on the matter is from a fragment of disintegrating parchment (scanned to a Withe information site, _AllAboutWithes_.com), written by a hermit called Troilus, a male Withe who had lacked an Anchor.

The fragment reads:

_Of harmes of they who are Withe thece are werst:_

_Bleeding eyen, and reed fingers perced with fire. A fithele brest full of stonnes, a heavy heed, aking bones. I lie awake alle nyght. Wyn, I wepe, but wyn will not stopp my paine. Fire, I crie, but hoot fire con not warme thisse cold. I wepe for song, to drone the sharpe noise, but the worlde is fulle wilde. I seethe in my owne deeth. Kylle me so I may slep, slep like a ded man._

John has read the melodramatic words many times; he knows quite well what they say, but the last line always stops the breath in his lungs.

He doesn't want to live without an Anchor, but he has no way of finding one. Anchors, those few people without a true ability and yet laced with traces of magic, are notoriously rare. To find someone like that in this century is near impossible. He has long since given up on finding an Anchor, and Troilus' warning has been relegated to the far back of his mind. John doesn't dwell on things he can't fix.

Well, he tries not to.

* * *

But on this morning he is acutely aware of his approaching, painful demise; he doesn't know why, and he tries to ignore the eerie sinking feeling in his stomach. Standing in the tiny coffeeshop, clutching two folded bills and a handful of quarters, he gazes at the neat hand-lettered sign above the cashier's head. Café latte, café mocha, caramel cappuccino. No, he'll have tea. Coffee makes everything heightened, intense, as if he sees the world with fever-brightened eyes.

_A fithele brest of stonnes, a heavy heed, aking bones._

The cashier is chattering to the person in front of him, smiling with brilliantly white teeth. She snaps the proffered money into her drawer, slams it shut with a crash. John stares at the black and pink sign, aware of the twinging pain in his leg. The lady before him departs with her tea.

He shuffles forward to the counter, lifts his lips in what he hopes is a normal expression of good humour.

"Earl Grey. The small, please," he says. The cashier, her face placid, whips out a Sharpie and scrawls on the side of a cup; drops it in front of the barista next to her and holds out a hand for his money.

John fumbles the money into her hand. He forgets to smile: his fingers have brushed softly against her dark skin. There's a sudden burning in his lungs. The shop seems to recede until there is nothing but the small hand beneath his, still extended.

The cashier's palm has a curved, tiny burn, red and fresh, curled just below the joint of her index finger, and everything within him is straining to brush it away. Cold blue fire surges upwards into his head and bursts into his arms, into his hands.

This has not happened in some time, but John manages to pull away, leaving the money in her palm. The healing power strains wildly against the back of his eyes, roiling and blue and fierce to be used, to be _free_. Shaking his head minutely, he steps to one side to let the next person in line come forward.

No one has noticed his momentary lapse: the cashier continues to work, and the people in line continue to alternate between gazing at the signs and out the bright windows, chatting with one another or texting. All is well.

The barista says his name; he glances up and takes the paper cup of tea, nods gratefully.

He forces himself to breathe deeply, and after a long minute, the blue fire recedes, pulling back like uncurled tendrils into the recesses of his skull. Everything hurts; he can hardly move his leg, even with the hated help of his cane. He clumps over to a side table near the windows and sits down carefully, staring out unseeingly into the busy street as he tries to contain the pain.

Slowly, slowly, the magic packs itself back into his bones, drawing itself into slumber once more, and John lets himself relax.

He sips his tea and watches as a familiar, (surprisingly rotund) face bobs into view across the street. What is Mike Stamford doing here? He should go say hello.

* * *

_Second A/N: For those of you who found it confusing – and I don't blame you – the translation of the Middle English text by 'Troilus' (they are real__ Middle English words; I looked them up :)) is as follows:_

**_"Of the harms of those who are Withe, these are the worst:_**

**_Bleeding eyes, and red fingers pierced with fire. A filthy breast [chest] full of stones, a heavy head, aching bones. I lie awake all night. 'Wine,' I weep, but wine will not stop [end] my pain. 'Fire,' I cry, but hot fire cannot warm this cold. I weep [beg] for song, to drown the sharp noise, but the world is all [completely, totally, fully] wild [crazy, unbearable]. I seethe in my own death. Kill me so I may sleep; sleep like a dead man." _**

**– Troilus, 14th Century, _The Withe Papers_**

_The brackets indicate definitions that also correspond to the Middle English word; i.e. there are more than one correct definition for some of them._

_Thank you for reading!_

_Oh, and I plan to upload the remainder of the chapters over the next week. :)_


	3. Chapter Three: Leap

**_Leap_**

* * *

_A/N: Thank you all once again for the favs, reviews, and alerts! :) I hope you enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

Three weeks later, and he's met Sherlock Holmes. Moved in with him; even killed a man for him. A healing ability brings several things into focus when one holds a gun – you know exactly where to aim, where the best points of entry lie. John knows the weakest chinks of the human body like he knows how to flick the safety off on his gun.

But he doesn't quite know what to think about Sherlock, this man with piercing, haunted eyes that see everything. Well, _almost_ everything. John smiles to himself, a worried smile, and looks out the rain-dusted window of his new flat. Sherlock is downstairs in the sitting room, plucking at his violin; John is upstairs in his bedroom, listening to bursts of incoherent pizzicato and wondering about his newfound luck.

A flatmate, an adventure. A chance.

A chance to use his power again, the power that is bubbling up in his bones, struggling like shot-off fireworks under his skin, banging around in his skull. He stares out at the London rain, smiling unconsciously now at the grey downpour. Truly smiling. Downstairs Sherlock is still plucking frenetically at his violin, and John is smiling like a fool.

_Don't be an idiot,_ he thinks. _Go downstairs and see if there's anything to eat. You don't _know _yet, you don't know if you will have the chance to use your magic. There's no reason for you to be so happy. _

What John doesn't know, what he can't understand, is that this happiness curled in his chest, warm like a sleeping fox, is not without cause. And it is not simply because of the new flat, the kind landlady ("Not your housekeeper, dear"), the rude, fascinating flatmate ("What is it _like_ in your funny little brains? It must be so _boring_"), the missing cane, the blog entries, or the Work, as Sherlock likes to call it. No, it's not really any of that, though they do have their bearings.

What John doesn't know is that he's found an Anchor.

What John doesn't know is that he's going to be all right.

* * *

It is a few weeks later, after the Blind Banker case. John is sitting in his chair, contemplating the book open on his lap. He's not reading it.

Sherlock is rhapsodizing about a hypothetical manner of finding fingerprints even underwater (it involves gel or something), and John is trying to think. He'd gotten out _To Kill a Mockingbird_ in hopes that Sherlock would leave him alone, but this was clearly a terrible plan. He should have gone upstairs, but Sherlock would probably have followed him up there and gone on for ages anyways.

John stares down at the words, not reading any of them; Sherlock's voice slows to a wordless, deep drone in his ears, and finally he finds the trail of his thoughts again.

He remembers two months ago, when he first met the Holmes brothers.

* * *

Mycroft (bizarre, belittling Mycroft) had told him, in a manner John was sure he'd meant to be all-knowing and mysterious, that when John walked with Sherlock, he saw the battlefield. He had taken John's unwilling hand in his own and looked down at it as if he was a soothsayer discerning a lifeline's end.

_You miss it_, he'd said.

He clearly thought he'd figured John out, pinned him down with his deepest secret; it was why he'd allowed John to leave.

Sherlock had done the same, though without the brusque invasion of privacy or the dramatic, heavily staged kidnapping. He'd not even tried to pry, because he had known everything already. Or so he had thought. He'd only mentioned war and death and corpses, asked if John would like to see some more. (Such a genteel way of asking such an awful, alluring question.) And John had agreed, agreed with real eagerness to follow the mad detective into this new battlefield.

But the Holmes brothers were both wrong.

* * *

John was not interested in war, though the pull of battle was definitely tangible; perhaps if he had not been Withe he would have fought for this yearning alone. No, it was not the war itself that pulled John into place besides Sherlock. War was not his lodestone.

No, John thinks, as Sherlock prattles on behind him, still talking about fingerprints; no, it was because in a war, one could work magic undetected.

War was chaos. Chaos made men blind.

And so did Sherlock and his cases. Around his glaring figure all surroundings dimmed, and John worked best in the shadows. In the hidden area besides Sherlock, John would have a chance to use his power.

At least, he hopes he will.

And he thinks that this chance is the only thing fuelling his happiness.

"Although modern science hasn't yet caught up to-"

John, realizing Sherlock is still speaking, snatches his thoughts away from his healing. He turns his attention to his friend, smiling faintly without realizing it.

Sherlock sees this, and thinks John is smiling at something he's said; he hadn't intended it to be funny, but perhaps he'll say it again. In another manner, of course; no need to be repetitive. Let's see... there we go.

John continues to smile, and Sherlock grins in appreciation. He _is_ being funny, then.

Startled at Sherlock's changed expression, John grins uncertainly back. Both men forget what Sherlock is saying; the detective slams to a full stop.

"Something wrong?" John says, trying frantically to remember the last thing Sherlock said. Something about pond water, wasn't it? No, that isn't right...

"Nothing," Sherlock says. He frowns and glances out the window. "Right, so about the acidity of the water – it has to be lower than..."

He falls back into his monologue, and John takes a sip of warm tea, half-listening. He's more interested in the clear joy on Sherlock's face (how the man loves to wax on and on for hours about things when there's someone to listen) than in the detective's subject.

No, John Watson has no inkling of what he's found.

* * *

A Withe won't know they've found an Anchor, not immediately, unless they tell the Anchor of their secret (then the magic sparks like a live wire and is clearly seen by both). But if the Withe does not tell the Anchor, or if the Anchor doesn't discover their secret, it doesn't really matter – the Burning will never happen, now that the two have met.

But it is best if the Anchor knows at once. Best for both of them. For after the Withe and the Anchor meet each other, after they form a bond, any bond, things begin to change.

First it is the strengthening of the bond. If the Withe and the Anchor are enemies, they become enemies for life. If it is love, they love each other until death. And friendship - oh, the friendship between an Anchor and a Withe coils into something so strong that it is unbreakable. A friendship between Withe and Anchor will last for eternity.

This strengthening can grow for years; even after the latter signs are apparent, the binding will remain incomplete for a long time.

The second sign is the slow relaxation of magic in the Withe's bones, the gradual draining away of headaches, knee pains, twinges in the hands and fingers. The Withe is released from his daily burden of pain, if he is the type who has hidden his magic away.

Along with this alleviation comes the Anchor's sudden awareness of magic in the world. The edges of leaves glimmer, trees gleam faintly even in the night, stones seem more than mere bits of rock. Everything glows outside; the evening wind is filled with tiny particles of light.

Finally, the last segment of the chain arrives, the link that awakens both the Anchor and the Withe to the truth of their joining. It is when the Anchor finds that some of the Withe's magic has streamed into his own arms and hands and fingers, and that he now carries the Withe's power within himself.

* * *

On Tuesday, at ten-fifteen p.m., after John has stumbled downstairs to complain about the screeching violin, wringing his hand unconsciously where he caught it on the doorjamb, Sherlock finds himself standing dazed in the middle of the sitting room. John has not gotten one word out. The slender neck of the violin is tight in Sherlock's left hand.

And healing magic is growing like a vine from the outstretched fingers of his other hand, the white hand that extends now towards John. The vine grows steadily, green-blue and brilliant, curling outward in slender streamers of clear light, and they wrap around John's forearm and wrist and fingers.

Sherlock doesn't know how to breathe. He had reached out without forethought, without decision, as he'd turned at the sound of aggravated footsteps and seen the blood on John's hand. A strange buzzing feeling had pulled itself loose from his bones and streamed into his right arm.

Both men stare at the truth of this magic. John's fingers close around the unearthly streamers, so familiar and yet so strange, forming from Sherlock's hand. He reaches with his left hand and peels one loop from the curve of his wrist, looks down to see the callused skin smooth and new where the cut had been.

And Sherlock, understanding this, understanding the wonder of it, looks at John in awe.

John stares down at his replicated magic.

"You're an Anchor," he whispers.

He looks sharply up at Sherlock. In the reflected glow of the streetlamps, his eyes are full of tears. Sherlock stares into his flushed, bewildered face, unable to speak. The magic buzzes in his ears like miniscule bees.

John whispers over the sound, his voice low and cautious, "You're _my_ Anchor."

And – "You're a Withe," Sherlock says.


	4. Chapter Four: Conduit

**_Conduit_**

* * *

At this bald statement, John turns slightly away, his face paling. Sherlock sees his jaw tighten in a spasm of emotion: fear, confusion, a flash of uncontrollable terror. They are still standing in the sitting room, and the healing magic remains taut and coiled around John's arm.

Sherlock tries to raise his hand, attempting to pull the magic free, but he finds he cannot: the streamers only tighten around John's arm, even refuse to leave the tips of Sherlock's fingers. He frowns in dismay. This sensation is horribly strange, like having several whip-thin, abnormally-coloured hairs growing from his fingers. It doesn't hurt when he pulls, but the streamers don't fall away, either.

"John," he says, pulling gently at the streamers again. They remain immobile. "John. _John."_

The other man is staring without expression at the dark window, seemingly oblivious. His shoulders are tensed; his hand is locked around the streamers, and the other is pinioned at his side, caught in a white-knuckled fist.

Sherlock says, very softly, _"John." _

John blinks.

Then he realizes, and he releases the handful of streamers. Sherlock steps back. The magic dangling from his fingers falls away into nothing, gone before the thin bluish streamers finish wafting to the floor.

John staggers. It is very slight, and Sherlock would not even have heard it if he wasn't looking, but John's step falters as he moves away. He teeters momentarily in his lost balance, and Sherlock immediately catches hold of his elbow. His friend's skin is very cold.

"Sit down," Sherlock says sharply. "Here, sit down." He guides John to the sofa.

John sinks precariously onto the edge of the sofa, drops his head into his hands.

Sherlock looks him over, places his violin on the table, and goes into the kitchen.

* * *

When he returns, John has found a sort of equilibrium: he can relax his left hand, and he is able to breathe normally, but he still can't look at Sherlock. He feels the detective's eyes running over his face as he hands John a mug of tea, but John only takes the mug and stares at the gleaming mahogany wood of the coffee table.

He has to explain. He has to apologize. He cannot believe what has happened.

He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say, but Sherlock cuts him off before he can speak.

"No. Drink that first."

John looks at the steaming mug in his hands.

Sherlock moves away to the opposite side of the room, returns dragging his armchair behind him, and John takes a cautious sip of scalding, over-sweetened tea. Honey; too much of it. Sherlock still doesn't know how to make a decent cuppa. He takes another swallow, then another, and finally some sense of calm returns to his spinning, frantic mind. Setting the cup on the table, he looks up into Sherlock's grey eyes.

There is no shock in that all-knowing gaze, no condemnation, no reproval. John considers this.

"You already knew," he says, after a moment.

Sherlock nods gravely. He doesn't seem inclined to speak.

"But-" John begins, and then thinks better of it. Of course he knew; he'd been a fool, an utter fool to think he could hide this massive, _appalling_ secret from the world's only self-made consulting detective. "What gave me away?"

"You don't drink," Sherlock says. "And yet you are always thirsty. You carry small pebbles in your jacket pockets, you never stand too close to people, and you are a doctor."

He holds up one long white finger as John begins to speak. "You thought that your profession would draw suspicion away from your healing power. It did, initially. I only deduced that you were a Withe late last month."

"When?" John bursts out. "How? I thought-"

"You'd hidden all of the signs? Yes, you had," Sherlock agrees, "except for one. The last few weeks I grew suspicious; you haven't been yourself these past days. After noting your daily habits – each innocuous by itself, but when pieced together, almost irrefutable – I thought I'd go through your things for more evidence. In your room, I found these."

He stands up and goes to the bookshelf, pulls a thin, faded copy of _1984_ from the bottom shelf. Flipping gently to the last page as John watches in silence, he pulls a much-folded, water-stained slip of paper from the binding.

Sherlock holds up the wafer-thin paper to the light, and seven names stand out against the smudged paper.

"Harry Watson," he reads. "Joanna Morrison. Cooper Dervish, Steven Wells…"

He is about to read the fifth name when he looks up and sees John's face crumple.

Sherlock stops. He crosses the room and drops the paper into John's lap. "My apologies."

"No," John croaks, waving a limp hand. "No, it's not you. Not the paper. I just thought… I never thought-" He gestures weakly to Sherlock, then to the slip of names. "I never thought anyone would find out. And now you're – you're a –"

The unspoken, unspeakable word dies in his throat; he blinks hard and stares past Sherlock's shoulder at the blurring lines of the crammed bookshelf.

"There is nothing shameful in being an Anchor."

His voice is strong, piercing; John can't help but look up at him. "John, you know your power is nothing to be ashamed of. You _must_ know that."

"It's not what I wanted to be," John says hoarsely. "I never wanted to be a Withe."

"And yet you are."

Sherlock says this with perfect equanimity.

John stares up at the detective, at his calm, unlined face. "You can't honestly think that this is nothing to be worried about. I am a _Withe_, Sherlock – do you know what that means? It means if anyone finds out, there's no telling what will happen to me! To _us!_ You can't understand –"

He breaks off, rises abruptly to his feet. The list of names, the people he has healed, drifts carelessly onto the coffee table.

The consulting detective stands quite still and watches him.

"I never should have come here," John snaps out, fisting his hands at his sides. He closes his eyes, breathing sharply. Then his eyelids flick open and he stares fiercely at Sherlock. "I've put you in danger. If I had known – if I'd told you, or if I'd done something, anything – I've been such an idiot –"

"Oh, _shut up_," Sherlock snarls, finally fed up with this drivel. "That's _enough, John_."

John's eyes open wide; he blinks twice. His stomach turns over, then rights itself.

Sherlock nods coolly, sprawls into his armchair and laces his fingers comfortably under his chin. His voice is a relaxed murmur.

"That's better. Do you really think I'd have rejected you as a flatmate if I'd known you were a Withe? Do you honestly believe I'd want to kick you out, or that we're somehow in more danger now than we were before? Sit down and drink your tea. I want to ask you some questions, and I can't do so if you're pacing and shouting. Not to mention you'll have Mrs. Hudson up here in a few minutes."

John swallows hard, looking at him. He sits down.

"Good," Sherlock pronounces, and inclines his head in the direction of John's tea. "Now please do finish your tea. It took me much too long to prepare it. I even had to _wash_ a _mug_."

There is a distinctive edge to his voice, an undercurrent of light humour that recalls John to himself. He is not being interrogated. He is in 221B, in his flat, speaking to Sherlock Holmes.

Of all people, a sociopathic, misanthropic, misunderstood man like Sherlock should be able to understand his secret, understand his hidden fears, his buried guilt, and his bewildering sense of shame. He is safe here. Here he can lay down his weapons, put aside his armour.

Here, he can stop fighting.

John allows himself to lean against the back of the sofa and finish his too-sweet tea. He allows himself to put the mug aside, to drop his hands into his lap, and he looks across the distance to Sherlock.

Without a trace of dread or panic or distrust, he says, "What do you want to know?"

And Sherlock smiles.


	5. Chapter Five: Potential

**_Potential_**

* * *

It is easy enough to answer Sherlock's questions, to explain about the finer points of healing magic and its complexities or confusions. It is much harder to live this new way, with each of them affected by the sudden introduction of an Anchor's power and the truth of John's magic into their lives. They struggle for a time, and both have to find a balance, a centre of understanding, where they can comprehend the struggles of each other. Some of it is difficult, but some of it is wonderful.

When John thinks back over this period of time, he remembers several scenes in great detail; the rest have faded into murky obscurity.

* * *

_First Memory_

It is snowing outside, and London is silent under the white expanse.

Inside 221B, Sherlock is staring motionless at a lit, fat blue candle on the kitchen counter. He stands directly before it, his hands flat on the counter, his eyes narrowed. Tiny candle flames glimmer in his pupils.

John looks up from his blog, startled by the sudden silence. Quiet equals peril in this flat.

"Sherlock?" He turns. "Oh. There you are. What are you doing?"

The detective says, hardly moving his lips, careful not to breathe heavily, "John. Come look at this."

"What?"

"This candle flame," Sherlock murmurs. "John, it's _beautiful_."

John ignores the tiny voice in the back of his head nattering about drugs and needles, and gets up, setting his computer aside. He pads over the rug and into the kitchen, shoving his cold hands into his pockets.

Sherlock lights a second candle of the ten standing on the counter, this one black, and shoves it across the counter to John. "_Look_."

He looks at the gold-red flame, sees nothing stunningly gorgeous about it. Shrugging, he glances sideways at Sherlock's eyes. Good; his pupils aren't dilated. No drugs, then. "It's just a candle, Sherlock."

"No, no, _no,_" the detective hisses, glaring at him. "It is _not_ just a candle! Look at it closer."

Resisting the urge to blow the candle out and thus end this madness, John leans slightly closer, squinting at the flame. It flickers happily in the small breeze of his movement, and yet he sees absolutely nothing strange about it. Sherlock is losing his – _Oh._

He straightens up and looks back at his flatmate, whose dark eyebrows are raised expectantly.

"You're an Anchor," John explains patiently. "Whatever you're seeing in this candle is because of that." He pauses. "What _are_ you seeing in it?"

"Oh." Sherlock looks mildly disappointed. He leans over the black candle and blows it out, turns to the second one as if to do the same.

Then he hesitates, staring sadly into the flickering flame. "I thought it was something else. You see, I made these candles from the earwax I've collected from various corpses over the years; I thought that maybe – but clearly not."

He sighs deeply, obviously very disappointed.

John tries to not imagine Sherlock digging wax out of dead people's heads. "Right. So what _do_ you see, then?"

Sherlock leans towards the remaining light, the end of his nose so close it almost touches it. Then he exhales suddenly: the candle flame spurts away into smoke. He steps back and glances at John, his forehead furrowed as he tries to find words for what he'd seen.

"I don't really know," he says at last, leaning against the cabinet. "But it was beautiful."

They stand together in the kitchen, watching smoke trail upwards in grey spirals from the blown-out candles, and John remembers a time when no one understood him, either.

"I see."

The detective flickers a grey-blue eye sideways at him, decides he's being generous, and nods. Then he spins on his heel and flaps into the sitting room, where he throws himself on the couch, groaning dramatically.

"Give me something to _do_, John," he begs.

"It's dinnertime," John says. "And you haven't eaten since yesterday. Takeout?"

Sherlock buries his head in the Union Jack pillow. A muffled gurgle issues from its depths.

"Eurgg."

"I'm taking that as a yes," his flatmate says, cheerily, and reaches for the phone.

* * *

_Second Memory_

The world is on fire.

Sherlock lies staring upward at the blue ether, watching six ravens circle and cry to one another above the high buildings, six fragile black shapes writhing against the burnished disk of the sun. Beneath him blood spreads in a widening circle, a meandering puddle of sunset colours. His hands are clamped over his side in an attempt to stem the gushing bullet wound.

He hasn't yet realized what has happened.

A hundred feet away, his attacker vanishes around the corner, gasping for air.

Sherlock lies still, trying to recall where he'd last seen his phone. He doesn't know. He drops the subject, and lets himself be grateful that the bullet darted past the folds of his wide-flared coat and through his shirt instead.

Then the pain opens up like a red-hot switchblade and carves into his side.

Amidst the writhing, twisted howls in his mind (or are they aloud?) he registers the dim beat of running footsteps. Someone coming down the alleyway, moving quickly. A precise, furious pace.

John.

The howling overtakes his consciousness.

* * *

Sherlock blinks his burning eyes open, sees the sunlight dazzle in brilliant teardrops of gold across the smeary old stonework. He is curled on his side, facing the left wall of the alley, his hands trapped under his weight. They press into the wound, as numb and useless as stone.

Everything, even his bones, seethe with pain. Someone is bent over him, cursing.

It must have been only a few seconds that he was unconscious.

"-lock, you idiot," swims into his hearing, and then the words trickle into place. "You weren't supposed to be going after him without me!"

John's hands fumble over his coat. Confused, Sherlock tries to lift his head. Pain rockets up his side and into his skull so quickly he gasps.

"_No_," John snarls. "Lie still. Lestrade is almost here; I have to do this fast. Brace yourself."

He doesn't tell Sherlock what he's going to do; only curls his strong military hands around Sherlock's shoulders and pulls hard, relentlessly, turning the detective over onto his back in one torturous movement. Sherlock can't help himself – he gasps again, almost cries out, as the wound strains open wide.

"I'm sorry." John's voice is kind; Sherlock latches onto its gentle sound and doesn't let go. "It's alright. It's alright."

He reaches down, pulls Sherlock's hands free from the gaping, deep-sunken wound, and digs his own fingers into the detective's mauled side.

* * *

Moments later, they stand, Sherlock fully mended, John breathing too fast, at the entrance of the alleyway, waiting for Lestrade. The DI almost hurtles past them – but then he stops and turns and registers the two men. Sherlock's blood-drenched shirt is hidden under his buttoned coat, invisible.

"Where's our suspect?" Lestrade gasps, between snatches of air.

"Yes, and he's quite gone," Sherlock says laconically. "But he left these in the gutter."

He holds up a keychain bristling thick with old, gummy keys, and launches into a lightning-quick explanation. By the time it is over Lestrade knows the best places to find his suspect, that he is armed, his favourite flavour of bubble-gum, his hatred and fear of his elderly mother, and his motive for the crime. Lestrade goes away, taking the keys with him for the police dogs, and John, citing exhaustion, takes Sherlock home.

* * *

After this they lay out several rules. Well, John does; Sherlock is occupied with an experiment involving the tattered remains of his shirt.

* * *

_Our Rules:_

_1. I will heal any life-threatening wounds acquired by you, Sherlock, if possible (i.e., if no one is watching). Otherwise, we are going to hospital._

_2. We have to be very careful, and that includes searching the flat weekly for new bugs. Healing can never take place in view of a CCTV camera. _

_3. Lesser injuries are not to be healed. Ever. It's too dangerous._

_4. If I, John, am caught healing; you, Sherlock, cannot explain that you are my Anchor. Not even if it will help me. The less the authorities know about you, the better._

* * *

John hands the paper to Sherlock to read. He's signed his name across the bottom.

Sherlock's eyes trace swiftly across the page.

Slowly, deliberately, he nods. He reaches for the pen and signs his own name in a sprawling, elegant scrawl beneath John's.

Then he goes to the mantel, taking the paper with him, and reaches up to take down a lighter. Flicking it open, he holds the flame to the paper. It catches instantly: light licks up the side of the page. Sherlock lets it fall into the fireplace, and under his gaze the tiny fire sparkles with a myriad of indescribable colours.

Behind him, John sighs. Sherlock hears the refrigerator creak open, then shut.

"There's no milk."

The paper has wrinkled away into ash. Sherlock closes the grate.

"No. Would you like to buy some?"

"No."

Sherlock shrugs, and goes to tune his violin.

John collapses into his armchair, opens his laptop, and creates a new blog entry.

* * *

_I'm going to break up this chapter and post the rest later, because this one is so long. I think it will probably be one more chapter before I reach my next_ _full__ chapter and post that. I hope that makes sense._

_Thank you for your reads, favs, alerts, and reviews! You guys are great!_


	6. Chapter Six: Field

**_Field_**

* * *

_Third Memory_

One grey, murky morning, John finds a dead bird caught under a mess of slick green weeds by the River Thames. He is on another case with Sherlock, a case involving three drugged drowning victims in the past two weeks. A few paces to his right, Sherlock is arguing with Lestrade about a particularly sensitive witness – she'd burst into tears after Sherlock had tried to (rather brusquely) question her about what she'd seen on the bridge two nights ago.

"It is hardly _my_ fault the stupid girl couldn't tell a man from a tree," Sherlock is ranting, gesturing fluidly, while Lestrade crosses his arms and looks at him from under a lowered, disgruntled brow. "If her story doesn't add up, _she_ is the one responsible, not me. I can't possibly be expected to agree with a so-called _witness_ who can't even be bothered to remember what time it was when she was here!"

Across the way, Anderson straightens up from his inspection of the crime scene, watching Sherlock like a too-thin hawk.

Sally is consoling the red-haired girl who had found the body, the same girl who Sherlock had snapped at. Occasionally Donovan shoots him dirty looks behind the girl's hunched, trembling back.

Sherlock pointedly ignores all three of them.

John looks down at the dead pigeon in the weeds.

"Yes, you _can_," Lestrade says, "and you will, or you won't be coming on these cases anymore."

"An idle threat," Sherlock replies loftily. "You need me. _Desperately_, I might add. John, we're leaving. Call me when you find someone who actually _saw_ something, Lestrade."

He sweeps away, and John, who hasn't heard a word of the conversation except for the part with his name, nods sympathetically at Lestrade and follows him away.

* * *

"What were you so interested in, back at the crime scene?" Sherlock asks, after they've left the cab and gone into Speedy's. It's a slow day; hardly anyone's inside except for them.

John spins his fork into his fettuccini, giving himself a moment to answer.

"Why do you ask?"

Sherlock puts down his glass and looks at him. "Are you really dodging the question?"

There's a moment's silence. John stares at his noodles, his fork clamped between his fingers.

"We're not having this conversation," he says, "not here." And he drags a forkful of noodles into his mouth.

On the opposite side of the table, Sherlock's eyes flicker from his half-empty water glass to John's lined, expressionless face.

* * *

They come home.

The cab ride is silent. John sits immovable and unspeaking the whole way, staring out his window.

And now Sherlock doesn't quite know what to do with himself. He goes into the sitting room and looks around, listening to John's steady footsteps as he climbs the stairs. Slowly, Sherlock reaches down and picks up the remote; discards it on the sofa cushion. He goes to the window, pushes aside the curtain, looks out.

Outside the wind has lifted a smattering of dead leaves and whirled them into a spiral of soundless motion. Sherlock watches the leaves rise into the air, their desiccated bodies dusted with pale white and gold and light blue flecks, signs of magic visible only to him. The leaves glitter brightly against the dull greyness of the sky, curling upward without effort.

The wind ceases; the leaves fall away to the street.

"Hmm."

Sherlock turns at the croaky purr of a cleared throat, and sees John standing awkwardly at the foot of the stairs.

"Look," he says, without preamble, "I'm sorry I snapped at you."

Sherlock waves a lazy hand. "No matter."

But it feels as though a great weight has been lifted from his chest.

John, relieved, shuffles from one foot to the other, smiling sheepishly. Then a faint frown crosses his face, and he comes into the sitting room, stopping before the detective. He's wearing one of his horrible sweaters, Sherlock notes happily. John in sweaters is John at peace.

"It's just that – you asked about what I was doing, and I – I was thinking-"

He stops, collects himself, glances sideways out the window and then back to Sherlock.

"Alright. There was a dead pigeon – you saw it, right? Right. So it reminded me of Afghanistan. Not in the way you would think; it's just that sometimes I forget I can't – no, this isn't coming out right."

Sherlock thinks he might understand, but he would like some clarification. "No, go on."

"I've been having this feeling," John says, shaking his head, "this feeling that something very bad is about to happen. I don't know what. But today I saw that bird, and I remembered I can't heal everything, not always. That's why I was so preoccupied – I started thinking about that, and then I remembered how I've been feeling lately – it was stupid."

Sherlock stares at him. He doesn't know what to say. "Oh."

"Sorry." John shrugs, pivots to walk to the sofa. He's relaxed now; his shoulders are loose and his gait is flexible. It's almost as if telling Sherlock about his premonitions has helped him. Sherlock can't quite figure this out, but he has a better question to ask.

"You can't heal everything?"

John has told him of all the times he's helped people, of all the times he's closed wounds and remade bones and soothed burns. He's never mentioned that his power has limits. John doesn't have limits. John can do anything.

"No, I can't," the ex-soldier says, very quietly. He doesn't turn to look at Sherlock; instead he picks up the remote and runs his fingertips over the rubbery buttons. "I can't bring anyone back from the dead, Sherlock. Not even an animal. Not even a little pigeon."

_Not even you,_ he doesn't say, and Sherlock hears it.

"So I can't do the same for you, either?" the detective asks, and then formulates his next question into an answer. "Your healing power ends at death."

He's not wondering if his acquired power will leave when John dies; he doesn't care about that. When John dies there will be no need for the healing anymore; there will be no need for any magic anymore. He only wants to know the extent of John's abilities.

John nods. And then they both shake the strange grey feeling of doom away, for neither of them have plans to perish anytime soon.

But John can't pretend he isn't worried, and as Sherlock pulls his phone from his pocket to read Lestrade's newest text, John digs his fingers into his thigh and tries not to think about the lifeless bird in the river weeds.

It had fallen from so high above that the force of the landing had broken its neck.


	7. Chapter Seven: Lightning

_**Lightning**_

* * *

_"I lie awake alle nyght." – _Troilus, 14th century, _The Withe Papers_

* * *

John stands at the edge of the gritty, windswept roof, looking down into the rain-filled gutters of a sodden London night.

"You'll catch cold, standing out here," says a low voice from behind him.

"Probably," he agrees. A shivering breeze whips around him, pausing to pry under his upturned collar. He ignores it.

The owner of the voice draws closer. "Come back inside, John."

"I'd rather stay out here, if you don't mind."

"John."

Unwillingly, he turns and looks at her.

Molly, her long hair swept into a smooth chignon, slender and fragile in a silvery gown, is smiling sadly, so sadly it is as if her face has been painted on by a clown. "Please, John. I can call a cab for you if you want to go, but don't stay up here."

"I'll walk." He steps towards the exit, lowering his head against the growing wind. "I'm fine, Molly. You should go back to the party."

"John," she pleads, but he walks faster. "John – oh, fine. Be careful. Please."

"I will."

He doesn't stop. He shoves a hand against the doorjamb; it crashes open, and he jogs down the stairs, moving faster and faster until he is almost running. Three flights down, two flights, one. He's out. The cool night air breaks over his face, runs fingers down his spine; cold puddles splash around his feet as he strides down the deserted sidewalk.

A cab pulls up next to him in a screech of brakes, hopeful, but he waves it on.

As he draws closer to the flat, a cascade of fireworks shoots up into the night sky, streaming lines of glowing colour expanding in a glassy sheen over the stars. Families pour out of their houses, running into the streets, pointing, smiling, gasping with excitement, fascination, joy.

"Happy New Year!"

"Happy New Year to you!"

John weaves through them all, his head down, ignoring the bright shattering globes overhead, ignoring the pounding thrum of gunpowder, his gaze fixed on his feet. Five more minutes and he'll be alone again.

Even now his limp is still gone.

_Boom. _

He walks faster, but the sound pursues him.

_Boom. Boom. _

_Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee… _

_Boom. _

He breaks into a staggering run.

Then the door of his rented flat looms up at him, swings open under his hand, and he goes in, turns the bolt. He falls into the fold-up chair by the rickety heater and drops his head into his hands. The silence he'd thought would be welcoming settles around him in a dull, stifling blanket.

Unable to sit still, he stands and crosses to the tiny kitchen, fumbles the refrigerator door open.

He hadn't eaten anything at the party.

He dimly remembers Lestrade watching him from the buffet table, worry lines etched around his mouth and eyes, his hair greyer than before. Molly had come to stand next to the DI, balancing a tiny plate of untouched pastries and cubes of fruit, her eyes flickering uncomfortably from Lestrade to John.

Anderson and Sally had turned next, their pointed faces bobbing among the crowd, watching him from the corners of their eyes.

John had put down his full glass of water and made for the roof, sidling between the drunken, merry police officers, friends of Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson. He slid sideways through a door rendered nearly invisible by a crush of undulating bodies, closed it soundlessly behind him. The stairs lay before him like a pathway to the moon.

He'd climbed up, come to stand on the roof, watching the night sky. His eyes had wandered from the hazy stars to the street below.

And then Molly had found him.

He takes a container of orange juice out of the fridge. Molly – he isn't angry with her. He knows she only wants to help him. But he doesn't want help. Not now. He's too raw; the tearing wound is too new.

He raises the paper cup of orange juice to the peeling ceiling.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock."

It has been six and a half months since his best friend's death.

* * *

_"I'm a fake." _

John sits on the edge of his sagging bed, his fingers poised over the dusty keyboard.

_"Nobody could be that clever." _

He closes his eyes.

_"Goodbye, John."_

Where the magic had been electric and whirring in the marrow of his bones, coursing through his arms and hands, fierce and powerful and free, there is nothing but a lifeless current of stolid, immovable stone. He can't reach for it. He can't even feel it.

He is numb.

He opens his eyes and looks at the bare white screen of his laptop. He does not write.

* * *

Fifty, fifty-one, fifty-two weeks pass, and John is sitting in a small cafe with Lestrade, holding a steaming cup of coffee. He is laughing; in this moment all lines are gone from his face, and his eyes are lit and squinting and carefree.

"No," he gasps, "no, you didn't say that."

Lestrade grimaces, and then grins self-deprecatingly. "I did. Poor Molly. My first try at asking her out, and I can't even be bothered to do it properly. She must have thought I was a total idiot."

John shrugs, still giggling. "Well, at least you've managed to keep her around for two whole weeks. My last girlfriend – well, let's just say it was a lot shorter than that."

"Women," Lestrade says, shaking his head with an air of complete incomprehension. "You're a good catch, John. You just wait and see."

"Right," John says, but he's doubtful. "So what's this about your new case, then? Something to do with stolen army rifles?"

"Yes, and we have no leads. You want to come in on Monday and see if you notice anything? I'll give you the file now, if you want."

John agrees, and Lestrade, reassured, leans back in his chair to pull the file from his briefcase. It is a sunny day. Overhead, pigeons swoop in awkward, endearing flights to grab crumbs from nearby tables and chairs. John can't quite put his finger on it, but something has relaxed in his chest. He breathes in the crisp air of spring and looks out at the busy street.

It is one of the first days Sherlock's absence hasn't pained him.

* * *

He's walking through the cemetery at midnight, alone and unseen under the brittle, distant stars, reading Lestrade's file and eating a pastry, when his magic rushes up through his legs and cuts all breath in his lungs.

The file and the nibbled pastry fall from his hands.

John drops to his knees in the damp grass, struggling for air. His left arm pulls itself away from him, moving of its own accord; his fingers uncurl and extend straight out.

Magic unwinds from his fingertips, all five of his fingertips, spinning outward like string on a flying kite's spool, and he can breathe again. Blue ribbons, dark deep blue, a blue so much darker than Sherlock's light-coloured streamers, spiral away into the night, whirling over the tombstones, darting between winged statues and massive stone archways.

"What the –"

He clutches at his left arm, trying to draw it back. The magic unspooling from his hand sends tremors up and down his body, makes his heart shiver in his chest. The sensation is appalling, but John knows what it is.

His Anchor is still alive.

The shock of his supposed death had sent John's magic into hiding, but now it is back.

Sherlock is alive.

As the magic flickers away into the night, vanishing into dimly glittering dust borne on the wind, John pulls his arm back against his chest. He closes his eyes against the sudden tears; forces himself to breathe deeply, to calm his stuttering heart.

Sherlock is alive.

He gets up, looks into the distance where the ribbons had flown. Southwest.

Carefully, he stoops and picks up Lestrade's file, leaves the pastry, and sets off through the tombstones.

He'll wait a day. Maybe half.

And then he will go find him.

* * *

_A/N: I hope the happy ending to this chapter alleviates the angst throughout the rest of it :). I'm sorry, though; I tell you, it was as hard to write as it is to read. _

_By the way, thanks for the favs, alerts, and reviews!_

_And to warn you in advance, the next chapter will be the last one for this story._

_Thanks for reading!_


	8. Chapter Eight: Electromagnet

**_Electromagnet_**

* * *

But it seems he doesn't have to.

* * *

John stands in the red-golden sunlight of a dying Saturday, twenty or so hours after his visit to the cemetery. His eyesight is rendered almost useless by the reflecting mirror on the opposite wall. He grasps the edge of the open door with fingers of ice; his feet are plastered to the ratty carpet.

He had unlocked his door, made to step inside.

And someone tall and dark and thin had unfolded from his chair. A familiar coat flapped in the wash of amber rays.

John stopped moving. Now he stares blindly into the dim flat, trembling.

"Sherlock?" he tries, feeling idiotic. He swipes a hand across his eyes, trying to see.

"John."

The voice is unmistakable.

John reels, even though he _knows_, he _knows_ Sherlock is alive. This is not a surprise anymore; it shouldn't be.

Even so, shakily, he says, "Well?"

And now he can see him.

Sherlock.

Thinner, tanner, older. His grey eyes are rimmed in red.

As John stares, wordless, Sherlock moves. He strides so quickly across the room that John almost backs up in surprise. He hardly manages to stop himself, still clinging to the doorframe, breathing harshly. He's half-afraid he's seeing things: what if he's a ghost – what if he's gone mad and Sherlock isn't here? What if he's –

But then strong arms slide around him, thin, wiry, desperate arms, and there is nothing to see for a long moment but a shining blur of dark curls as Sherlock buries his face in John's shoulder.

"You _idiot_," John croaks, but his arms come up around his friend. He digs his fingers into a dead man's shoulders and doesn't let go.

The sodden clump of fear at the base of his throat transforms into a lump of indescribable joy.

* * *

The two men don't see this, but over their heads a small globe coalesces, twirling for a moment in silent green-and-blue revolutions. It shines like a tiny underwater star, illuminating the faded walls of the flat in elusive light.

It is the True Mark. It is a promise.

A promise that the Withe and the Anchor beneath it will never be parted again.

John and Sherlock stand motionless under the Mark, and their future unspools before them, blazing like a river through the darkened desert.

* * *

_"I have herd that men looke for the Marke, and nere fynde it. But I have also herd that they who fynde it are nere allone ayen, not een in deeth. What manere of frenshipe is thys, unbrokon een thenne? Who can hope to fynde it?" – _Troilus_, _14th century, _The Withe Papers_

* * *

_A/N: And thus ends this small, re-imagined, embellished portrayal of Sherlock's and John's story. _

_As for the translation of Troilus' quote: _

_"I have heard that men look for the Mark, and never find it. But I have also heard that they who [do] find it are never alone again, not even in death. What manner [kind] of friendship is this, unbroken even then? Who can hope to find it?" _

_Thank you very, very much for reading, reviewing, and all the alerts and favs!_

- _Coquillage _

* * *

**_La Fin_**


End file.
